


Sick Day

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray calls in sick; Fraser goes to see him.  (Also fills the "nausea" or "food poisoning" square on my <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/"></a><b>hc_bingo</b> card -- I haven't decided which I'm using yet, but this card has both, and "motion sickness" to boot!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the "Health & Fitness" challenge at [fan-flashworks.](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com)

“Ray’s out sick,” Francesca tells Fraser, seeing him hesitate in confusion by Ray’s unoccupied desk.

A cold knot forms in Fraser’s stomach.

“Out sick?” he echoes.  “What’s the matter with him?”

“How should I know?  I didn’t ask for his medical records.”  She shrugs.  “He said he was sick, that’s all.”

Swallowing his own nauseous dread, Fraser pays for a cab to take him to Ray’s apartment.  Though not normally much of a one for prayer, he finds himself chanting silently, _Not too late, not too late, please, don’t let me be too late._ What he might be too late for, he refuses to allow himself to imagine in detail.

He takes the stairs two at a time, Dief keeping pace at his feet, panting anxiously—he doesn’t know what the emergency is, but he senses Fraser’s urgent fear, and that’s enough for him.  Fraser doesn’t hesitate to pick Ray’s lock and let himself into the apartment, senses on high alert, braced for whatever he may find.

What he finds is an empty living room, filled with Ray’s usual clutter.  Nothing seems amiss or particularly out of place.  As he draws a breath to call his friend’s name, he hears a sudden, unmistakable noise from the bathroom: the sound of Ray being actually, literally sick.

Only sick.

The ice in Fraser’s stomach melts, leaving him shaky with relief.  Not lying, not in trouble, not vanished; only suffering from the flu, or perhaps food poisoning.

Dief licks his hand, questioning, comforting.  Fraser pats his head, mouthing _It’s all right._ Somehow he still can’t quite say the words aloud; whether that’s due to embarrassment or the lingering remains of his panic, he’s not sure.

When the retching in the other room subsides, Fraser calls softly, “Ray?”

There’s a sharp thump, followed by a curse.

“Hell are you doing here?” Ray calls back, his voice rough and wobbly.

“Francesca told me you were sick,” says Fraser.

“Yeah, sick as a dog.  Jesus.”

“Do you need to see a doctor?  Have you called one?”

“Nah, it’s just—ate something I shouldn’t—oh fuck—”  Ray’s moan breaks off abruptly; he starts hacking again.  Fraser winces in sympathy and waits it out.

“Do you need any help?” he asks, when it sounds like Ray might be capable of replying again.

“No.  Go away.”

“Are you sure?”

“Puking my guts up here, Fraser; it’s not something you can _help_ with.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Know what you meant,” Ray cuts him off.  “Just lay off for once, will you?  I’ll be fine; beat it.”

“Are you sure, Ray?  You don’t sound fine.  In fact—”

“Christ, Fraser, knock it off, you’re not my mother.”

“That’s certainly true,” Fraser acknowledges, not sure of Ray’s point.  “Would you like me to phone your mother?” he offers tentatively.

“Fuck, no!  That’s the last thing I need.  Don’t you dare tell her I’m sick.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll come over and feed me Ginger Ale and chicken soup and fucking popsicles and fuss over me, and I am a grown man, Fraser, I do not need to deal with that kind of crap.  Especially not when I feel like I’ve been flattened by a semi.”

“Ah.  I see,” says Fraser.

And he does see; he understands very well the desire for peace and privacy.  Ray is a proud, self-sufficient man.  It’s only natural that he should want to recuperate in his own way, on his own terms, without witnesses to his weakness.  It’s a testament to the strength of his character.

Fraser remembers Ray Vecchio, who was inclined to fuss loudly at the slightest sniffle or hint of an ailment, and who enjoyed—even demanded—sympathy and soup and blankets and special attention when he was ill.

He remembers his own constant irritation at his physical therapist the last time he was hospitalized, and how he secretly looked forward to her touch and her no-nonsense encouragement.

He remembers—dimly—his mother’s hand on his hot, clammy forehead and the taste of mint tea.

He remembers the way Ray smiled at him—surprised, almost shy—the first time Fraser invited him to dinner, and the way Ray’s fingers kept playing delicately over the dreamcatcher Fraser gave him.  He remembers that Ray has lived very little of his life on his own.

Fraser considers all this, then borrows Ray’s keys from the breakfast bar, lets himself out of the apartment, and calls Francesca from the payphone across the street.

 

                           *                           *                           *

 

Several hours later, Ray is asleep on the couch, a movie playing unheeded on the TV in front of him.  He was able to keep down some Ginger Ale and Saltine crackers earlier, about a half hour before he drifted off.  A good sign.  His color looks better, too.  There’s certainly no sign of fever, so it seems likely that Ray’s hypothesis of food poisoning, rather than a viral illness, was correct.

Perhaps when Ray wakes, Fraser will see if he wants to try eating some soup.  Or, if not, possibly the Jell-O will be more appealing.  (Fraser can’t imagine wanting to eat the stuff himself under normal circumstances, let alone with an upset stomach, but Francesca assured him that it’s standard American fare in this situation, and he expects she knows whereof she speaks.)

The sofa cushions creak as Ray shifts, making a cranky, inarticulate noise as he does so.  Fraser leans over and lays the backs of his fingers against Ray’s forehead, and a smile flickers over Ray’s lips before he relaxes back into the pillow.  Fraser lets his hand linger where it is for a little while, humming under his breath.  The tune is mostly drowned out by the soundtrack from the television, but when Fraser stops humming, Ray starts to fidget restlessly again.

“It’s all right,” Fraser murmurs.  “Shh, it’s all right.”

Apparently Ray believes him; he sighs and lies still again, and is deeply asleep before Fraser runs out of verses.  



End file.
